He thought of touching more, of sliding his hands to her breast. The telephone rang shrilly and she turned to answer it, leaning over the counter talking crisply, he could see the outline of her hips. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She answered. ‘It will be fine. I am fine.’ ‘That’s my neighbor and good friend. She saw you come in and was worried.’ She whispered. He smiled and asked for directions to her bathroom, giving her time to talk to her friend. He smiled to himself, it was good someone watched over her. When he returned, he asked her if she was hungry. She shrugged. She looked at a loss for words. ‘You only ate french-fries for lunch.’ He reminded her. ‘No. I make my own soups, but sometimes it is not enough. Usually I don’t eat dinner.’ ‘Do you eat ice cream?’ She smiled. Ice cream. So they dined on ice cream at the creamery across the street and talked, and she walked him back to the hotel. She stepped in with him and they sat in the lobby. He looked at her. She said, ‘You know. I know. With the dust thick in places and cobwebs clinging to everything out of reach. Had mostly seen the usual junk when a old trunk caught my eye. After haggling with the old shop owner I was able to get him down to 50 and he just said to keep the junk inside.Later that week when I got around to looking inside there was a old wood cigar box under the old news papers and books inside with a old middle eastern style oil lamp. the thing was there was old journal with clipping from old newspapers in it from a 1800's talking about the lamp. It told of how it had been in the family for years but had passed hands quickly as each person had died in extremely painful ways after seemingly having the best fortune of there lives. They writer had noticed that his old uncle had been the only one who had kept it for any length of time. He had been a jail owner in the 1820's and after his death it came out had regularly had people tortured under extreme methods.. the writer then inherits his estate and.
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